The Hostess or Strictly Business
by Succi
Summary: First Sherlock kicks Molly's supposed to be one-night stand out of her flat, and then he wants her to accompany him to a ball. All strictly business, of course. Or is it not? – Set in S3.
1. The Offer

**A/N: I couldn't decide on the title, hence it got two ;-)**

**Susi begged me to do this when I told her about the idea. I hope you'll like it, because what was originally planned to be a short One Shot, transformed into this monster and cost me a whole weekend – my own Frankenstein's creature so to say. And NO Susi, I will NOT write it a female! **

**English is not my first language, so please bear with me. **

**Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue, I don't own them so please don't sue. **

* * *

**The Offer **

It was not that he was a bad kisser. He was not fantastic either. It was … nice. Nice was boring. She groaned inwardly. She would not let her mind wander down **that **road again! She would enjoy it and focus on the task at hand (no pun intended), which was being kissed by this guy she had taken home with her. This guy was called Andrew and she had met him in a pub tonight, when she had been out with Carol. He had been fun to talk to, and he had obviously been interested in her. So with some encouragement from Carol's side she had taken him home with her. Yes, she Molly Hooper was going to have a one-night stand. And to be honest, she felt a bit nervous about it, because she had never done that before. Of course she had done **it**, but she had never had a one-night stand before. But she had decided to give it a try, and so far it had been nice. Oh no, there was it again this horrible word!

"Is everything okay?" Andrew stopped kissing her neck and looked at her. Obviously her inner monologue had not been as discrete as she had hoped.  
She knew she was a terrible liar, but she had become better – having to lie to the people you care about for 2 years had that effect. "Yes, I'm fine."  
Andrew nodded and leaned in to kiss her again, when the doorbell rang. His head snapped up, and he looked at her again, confusion written all over his face. "Do you expect someone?"  
Molly could understand his irritation, because it was past midnight. She cleared her throat and scooted back on the bed they had been sitting on to put some distance between them.  
"No, but…" She did not really know how to end the sentence. Saying something like, "No, but I have one unexpected visitor coming over on a more or less regular basis," would probably not be wise.  
Andrew's bewilderment was almost comical. The bell rang again. Molly sighed deeply for she feared if she was not going to answer it, the ringing might not stop. Or even worse: He would let himself in.  
"Just give me a sec." He nodded, still not sure what was going on here, when Molly got up and walked out of her bedroom. She stopped in front of the mirror in the hall. Her hair was tousled, her lips swollen and her clothes out of place. She buttoned up her blouse and tried her best to arrange her hair. She knew it was useless, since the man on the other side of the door would know the instant she would open the door what was going on. But she had to at least try!

The ringing became more persistent – if that was even possible. Or maybe it was just her imagination, because she could feel herself getting nervous. She was in no mood to face him tonight. Not with a man sitting in her bedroom, not looking the way she did right now. She wondered for a brief moment where Toby could be and decided that he was probably curled up in the bathroom in the laundry basket – his favourite new resting place.  
She drew a deep breath, unchained the deadbolt and then unlocked the door. It opened and there in the corridor stood the man she had expected: Sherlock bloody Holmes. And he even had the impudence to look annoyed.  
"Took you quite some time to open the door," he said and strode past her into the flat. She stumbled backwards surprised and breathed, "You can't come in."  
He turned around and started taking off his coat and scarf and hanging them next to her coat.  
"Why not? You're at home, no Tom anymore…"  
Molly did not close the door, because she would try everything to send him away again. She gripped the doorknob so fiercely that her knuckles turned white.  
"Is this an emergency?" She asked and hoped that he would not detect the slight tremor in her voice.  
"The press is crowding Baker Street," he said as if that was number one on the emergency-list.  
Molly crossed her arms in front of her chest. "You should have thought about that before getting yourself a fake girlfriend and letting her 'wear the hat'!"  
Sherlock's eyes became small slits and Molly had a dreadful feeling. He cocked his head to one side when he stated, "You've said I could come anytime."  
"Now is not anytime." She was determined to stand her ground, but had to admit that her voice did not hold the conviction she had wanted to convey.  
Suddenly a knowing look appeared on Sherlock's face and the pathologist knew all too well that it was never good to be on the receiving end of this stare. "You're planning on having a one-night stand." It was not a question.  
Molly felt her cheeks flush and cast her eyes down onto the floor. Her fingers fumbled nervously with the hem of her blouse.  
"No, I... I'm..." she began to stammer, but was interrupted by a voice coming from the far end of the room. Well, if "far end" was a term one could use to describe the distance; her flat was not that big.  
"You're Sherlock Holmes!"  
Sherlock turned around to see Andrew approaching them. He looked excited while the consulting detective only looked bored. "You're making progress Molly, he seems more intelligent than Tom," the sarcasm was blatant in his words.  
Molly wanted to punch him in the face then and there, but she felt paralyzed and could only watch in horror the events unfold. Andrew looked confused about Sherlock's statement, but when he came to stand in front of him, he stretched out his hand. "I'm Andrew Mayer, nice to meet you."  
Sherlock ignored the gesture completely, walked past the flummoxed man and stated in his usual lofty manner, "I need the bedroom, but feel free to have sexual intercourse in any other room of the flat, since I won't come out of the bedroom for a few hours. Still I'd ask you to refrain from making loud noises. Additionally I don't recommend sleeping on the couch. Al least not if you're over 5 feet."  
He walked into the bedroom, his suit jacket came flown out and the door was shut with a dramatic pang.  
Molly stood there frozen in place watching Andrew who was staring at the bedroom door in utter disbelieve.  
"Did I just get kicked out by Sherlock Holmes?" he breathed.  
That brought the pathologist out of her stupor. She cleared her throat. "We're lucky he rang the bell, normally he just walks in."  
Andrew turned towards her and drew up an eyebrow. "He has a key?"  
Molly shook her head. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't need a key to enter a flat."  
"I see."  
An awkward silence enfolded them. Molly shuffled with her feet and realized that the front door was still open. She was desperately searching her mind for the right thing to say. But she could not find a box labelled _Appropriate things to say to your supposed-to-be one-night stand when your consulting detective has walked in_. She should get herself a mind palace and create a room with phrases one could use to excuse the behaviour of her high-functioning sociopath-friend. _  
_Finally Andrew was the one to break the silence. "Well, I guess we should call it a night then?"  
"Yeah, I guess so. I' sorry," she said apologetically.  
"No worries." He waved it off, but Molly could see that his casual attitude was fake.  
She nodded and turned around to get his coat from the hanger. She handed it to him and opened the front door wider.  
"Thanks for the nice evening." She scolded herself for using the word again.  
"You're welcome."  
For another embarrassing moment they stood there in the doorway, not knowing how to proceed. Again it was him, who spoke up first, "So, I'll call ya."  
"Okay," was all she could manage to reply. Andrew leaned down, placed a chaste kiss on her cheek, and then he was gone.

Molly closed the door, closed her eyes, sighed deeply and leaned heavily against the door.  
A well known deep voice made her jump.  
"He won't call you." Her eyes snapped open. There he was: Sherlock Holmes leaning casually onto her bedroom door frame looking at her with his usual empty expression.  
She felt herself getting chagrined when she stomped towards the couch. "I thought you've wanted to stay in the bedroom for some time?" she asked in a clipped tone.  
Sherlock pushed himself off the doorframe and walked towards her. "Why are you angry? You won't call him either."  
"That's not the point!" She threw her hands up in exasperation. Sometime his audacity was unbelievable!  
The consulting detective looked genuinely confused, but she did not plan on explaining it to him. He would either get it, or not. She just wanted him to leave her alone. The pathologist popped herself down on the sofa and drew a hand over her face in a gesture of frustration. Through her fingers she saw Sherlock sitting himself down on the chair scanning her with his bright eyes. She hoped if she did not react he would probably just go away, but since this was Sherlock Holmes she would hardly be this lucky. Instead he asked another question, "Why do you choose a stupid man for a one-night stand?"  
She let her hands fall to her side and answered defeated, "The level of IQ has nothing to do with how good the sex is."  
Sherlock shrugged. "Well, you have way more experience than I do."  
Molly sounded scandalized, "Are you implying I'm easy to…"  
"No. No!" Sherlock realized his mistake in his choice of words and hastened to add, "In relation to your age your number of sexual partners is rather small."  
Molly did not think that this sounded any more flattering. "And now you've managed to make me look like an old spinster."  
Sherlock's lips became a thin line. "You're twisting my words."  
"If you say so," she said her tone clearly lined with frustration. Molly was tired, and a bit embarrassed. Sherlock had more or less seen her with the guy she had planned to have sex with. Why did the phrase "plan to have sex with someone" not sound right in her head? Granted, it was not really romantic, but that was not what was bothering her. Maybe it was because ... But her musing was interrupted by the man sitting next to her in the chair. "You haven't answered my question. I'm pretty sure you could find yourself an intelligent man."  
Molly could feel herself getting defensive again. "Define intelligent. In your opinion everyone who is not you is more or less stupid."  
"True." At least he did not attempt to try to disguise his narcissistic attitude...  
When the woman on the sofa still refused to say anything more on that matter he tried again, "So, why not find yourself an intelligent man?"  
"The intelligent ones are not available," she answered in an unadulterated way. She did not see any need to lie to him, because she was sure he would not follow up upon the fact that she was talking about him. Sherlock Holmes may have been a genius, but he was quite thick when it came to matters of the heart. There was always something that he missed.

When she made eye contact with him, she realized that he was leaning forwards to her and looking at her with a piercing gaze, as if he was trying to make sense of what she had said. It was the look that made her think he was seeing her through. Like he knew all the thoughts and secrets she treasured. He seldom looked at her like that, but when he did she was not sure if she loved or despised it. She desperately wanted to look away, out of fear he could actually figure out she had been talking about him, but she found herself transfixed by his stare. To her relieve he suddenly sat up straight again and said peremptorily, "You are going to accompany me to the ball at the Austrian Embassy tomorrow."  
"What?" She had to shake her head, because she was not sure if she had heard him correctly. The deep sigh that was coming from him was enough to let her know how slow he thought she was being. So he explained deliberately slowly, "I have to attend the ball at the Austrian embassy tomorrow. One of Mycroft's invitations he was so kind to pass onto me, because he is busy starting a war somewhere." He made a dismissive gesture with his right hand and from the way he said it, one could have thought the words poisoned him while speaking them.  
Molly still did not get it. "So why do you need me?"  
„I'm definitely not attending this horrible thing alone. I would die from boredom!"  
"Meaning you would probably shoot or at least insult the Austrian ambassador."  
The consulting detective nodded grimly.  
Molly sat up a little straighter. "Why don't you ask John?"  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "People already talk enough and that makes John uncomfortable. He seems to have a little issue with people thinking he might be gay. He is not as comfortable with his sexuality as I am."  
Molly chocked at her words and blinked a few times. Did he mean that? But she thought he... WHAT?!  
Sherlock obviously did not understand why her mouth opened and closed a few times, so his brow knitted in confusion.  
"Molly?"  
She shook her head to clear her thoughts. "Yeah, sorry. I... ahm..."  
Sherlock sighed. "I need to ask you not to stammer at the ball tomorrow. It would be embarrassing for the both of us."  
"Sure, I... I mean..." He gave her a measured look and that finally made her close her mouth and draw a deep breath. She closed her eyes momentarily, and she was glad that Sherlock gave her the time to get a grip of herself again. When she opened her eyes again, he was still looking at her.  
She tried to sum up what she thought he had asked of her, "So, you want me to accompany you to this ball?"  
"Yes," he said, and Molly was surprised that she did not detect any boredom in his voice as she had expected.  
She went on, "You want me to accompany you. Like a…?" She drew up her eyebrows to put some emphasis on the big question mark, when Sherlock hastened to set it straight, "Strictly business. It's just business. I have to go for business, so…"  
"Yeah sure, I know." Molly prayed desperately that he did not detect any hint of disappointment in her voice or face.  
"I could pay you?" he suddenly suggested and sounded like he had found the solution to a problem.  
"What?!" Molly was not sure if she had heard him correctly.  
"It seems only fair. People **should** get paid when having to attend such dreadful, boring events."  
"So you're paying me to accompany you to a ball?"  
"Yes. But maybe don't say that at the ball. People might get the wrong impression."  
She could not help a sarcastic comment, "You think so?"  
Sherlock chose to ignore the statement altogether and mused out loud without premeditation, "Although hostesses tend to comply with the conventional ideal of beauty. So you needn't worry that one might mistake you for one."  
Molly's mouth hung open. At first he more or less made her look like a high class call girl and then he said she was not pretty enough to be one? She did not know by which statement she should feel more offended. But before she could verbalize any of her thoughts he got up from the chair and ended the conversation in his arrogant way, "The ball starts at 8 p.m. I'll text you the details and further instructions. We can talk about the payment tomorrow. Goodnight." And with that he disappeared into her bedroom, leaving an irritated Molly Hooper behind, who was not able to process any of what had happened tonight.


	2. The Job

**A/N: Thank you for all your nice words! They made me so happy! Just though you know: There won't be any updates in at least 3 weeks, because I'm gonna be abroad. Have a great time and I'm looking forward reading you again when I'm back! **

* * *

**The Job **

When Molly awoke on Saturday morning, Sherlock Holmes was gone. Of course he was. He always was gone on the next morning, as if he had never been there in the first place. Molly knew that, but still she could not shake off the little pang of disappointment she felt every time when she woke up alone in her flat after another night on the couch. She stretched and yawned while Toby looked up at her from his place on the chair with expectant eyes, hoping to be fed now that his mistress was awake.

After having fed her beloved pet, Molly sat at the kitchen table having breakfast. While sipping her coffee she thought about the night before. It all seemed like a blur of weird incidents colliding into each other. At first her attempt at having a one-night stand (why did she do that again?), being interrupted by the one and only consulting detective, having a conversation with him about the relation of high IQ and good sex (she felt herself blushing alone thinking about it) and then he had asked her out on a ball at the Austrian Embassy. Well, he had not really asked her out. He had wanted to pay her to accompany him. He had emphasized that it was "strictly business." Was that true? Of course it was! This was Sherlock Holmes after all! She sighed deeply and stared into her now empty mug, as if it would turn into a crystal ball and answer all her questions. Not much to her surprise it did not, but the noise coming from her mobile, indicating a new text, interrupted her thoughts. She opened the text feed and read the message:

**Your dress will be delivered in the afternoon. You've got an appointment at **_**Réné's**_** at noon. A car will pick you up at 7.30. Don't be late. SH**

Molly stared dumbfounded at the device in her hand. He was getting her a dress? He had made an appointment at the most expensive hairdresser in town and there was a car going to pick her up? Although her inner feminist screamed how high-handed his behaviour was, she could not help the smile that was creeping onto her face. He had arranged all of this for her? Granted, his text was phrased like a military command, but most of his texts were like that. She had stopped being affronted by it a long time ago.

Another text appeared on the screen:

**See you later! SH**

The pathologist chuckled when she read it. Obviously someone was trying to make an effort. She contemplated what she could text back. This was far more than she had expected. This was more than she had expected a "normal" man doing, yet alone Sherlock Holmes. She had no illusion that the main part of why he did it was out of selfish reasons: He didn't trust her enough to come to the event appropriately dressed and styled. And she had to admit that he was probably right. She had no idea what kind of dress one wears on such occasions, nor did she even possess such a dress. Could she even afford a hairstyling at _Réné's_? How did Sherlock get an appointment on such short notice? She could not accept him paying for the hairdresser, the dress, the car, ... Could she? He definitely had enough money (judging from his own clothes) and it would only be a small payback for what she always did for him, but still it did not feel right. Molly did not do all the things for him, because she expected something from him. (Well, maybe she expected a "thank you" or a proposal, but that was only in her fantasy) So what should she text back? "Thank you, but I can take care of myself." No, that would be rude – and a lie as well. "Oh Sherlock I can't believe you did this for me. Thank you so much!" That was way too much... Molly was not sure if this was the time for panicking, but given the circumstances it probably was. How could one silly text be such an obstacle? She took a deep breath and texted back:  
**Thank you! **(she deleted the exclamation mark three times, replaced it with a full stop and then went back to using an exclamation mark again)** I'll be on time. See you then, Molly**

She hit the "send" button and repeated the mantra of the day in her head:strictly business, strictly business, strictly ...

* * *

It was a rare occasion that Molly Hooper thought herself to be beautiful, yet alone pretty. She was not vain, and she knew she did not look like what was generally considered as a classic beauty. But tonight she felt like she was beautiful, or at least pretty.  
Réné had made her look like a model. The instant she had hesitantly walked into the hair salon, he had known who she was and had treated her like she was the Queen herself. He had complimented her how wonderful thick hair she had and that he would make her shine like a star tonight. And he had not promised too much. Her hair was swept up into a fancy bun and some strands were loosely framing her face. Thanks to Réné's makeup artist Marie, her skin looked flawless and the slight green of the eye shadow highlighted her brown eyes. The lipstick was a dark red and she was sure that not even Sherlock Holmes could argue now that her lips were too small.

The dress he had gotten for her was gorgeous. It was a strapless floor-length emerald gown that hugged her figure perfectly in just the right places, but still was the perfect mixture between playful and elegant. He even had thought about the matching shoes, awfully expensive looking earrings and a clutch.

Dressed like that Molly Hooper stood on the pavement in front of her building waiting for the car to arrive. She was nervous, of course, but she had practised her "strictly business"-mantra the whole day, and was determined to expect nothing from tonight. She would just try to keep Sherlock from insulting of shooting someone. And she knew from experience that that was anything but an easy task.

At 7.30 sharp a black limousine stopped in front of her. The back door opened, and a well known baritone voice commanded from the inside, "Get in. We don't want to be late."

Molly looked around in the limousine. She had never seen one from the inside before. Sherlock noticed her expression and said, "I think it's posh."  
She turned to look at him. "What do you mean?"  
"The limousine. I think it's posh and too much."  
She frowned. "Then why do we go by limousine?"  
He drew a face. "Remember originally this should have been Mycroft's job?"  
She nodded.  
"Well, I want to make my big brother proud."  
Now it was Molly's turn to draw a face. "Sure."  
"All those silly people go there by limousine, so we don't really have a choice."  
Molly shrugged. "I like it. I don't think this dress is made for going by motorbike."  
His lips actually curved into a small smile.  
The rest of the car ride was spent in companionable silence.

* * *

When they finally had made it past the security check ("Sorry, I almost did not recognize you without the deerstalker, Mr Holmes.") and left their coats in the cloakroom, Molly had a chance to look at Sherlock properly. He was dresses in a tuxedo and looked absolutely handsome. It took all the strength she had in herself not to stare at him open mouthed drooling.  
Sherlock on the other hand gave her a quick once over and stated, "I knew the dress would suit you."  
She figured this was his way of telling her she looked pretty. At least that was what she decided for herself.  
"Thank you," she mumbled in a meek voice. "I really love the dress. It's beautiful."  
"Good." He nodded and went straight into the main hall expecting her to follow him, obviously.  
When she caught up with him, he was standing at the bar ordering two glasses of champagne. She took the moment he was occupied with talking to the bar tender to have a look around. The exterior had already been impressive – the embassy being a white building from the 19th century on Belgrave Square – but the interior was stunning. The main hall was decorated with yellow flower arrangements. There was golden moulding on the ceiling and some giant oil paintings on the walls. A small orchestra was playing in the corner and some couples swayed gracefully on the dance floor. Others were standing around, chatting and drinking. The women were all wearing expensive looking long dresses and jewellery and the men tuxedos. She had never been on such an event before and she was getting more nervous by the minute, not sure if she would be able to fulfil her task of being Sherlock's graceful plus one.

Said man turned to her and handed her a glass of champagne. She took it with shaking hands and hoped – against better judgement – he would not notice. If he did he chose to ignore it and raised his glass. At first it looked like he wanted to say some kind of toast, but then he seemed to think better of it and only let theirs glassed meet with a soft "cling". Sherlock took a sip and she did the same, hoping that the alcohol would calm her down a bit.

The consulting detective was scanning the crowd when he suddenly said, "We still haven't talked about your payment."  
Molly almost chocked on her drink. She had totally forgotten about that. She stared at him, but his gaze was still directed at the other people surrounding them.  
She cleared her throat and looked down into her glass, watching the bubbles in the liquid making its way to the surface. "Sherlock, I really don't think that is necessary. I mean... you've already paid for the dress, the hairdresser, the limousine, ... It's too much already." She looked up hesitantly.  
He turned away from the crowd and looked hard at her. "No it is not."  
She was confused. The way he had said it irritated her. "What do you mean?"  
He took another sip of champagne and his face was again devoid of any expression when he asked, "I hope everything was to your liking at Réné's?"  
Molly knew all too well that he had changed the topic on purpose, but she had known Sherlock long enough to know not to push him. Therefore she joined in on his attempt at small talk.  
"It was perfect, really. Everyone has been so nice to me. And Réné was so sweet. He is probably the gayest guy I've ever met; a walking cliché. I really liked him."  
"I've sent John there one day to get a haircut." Sherlock smiled devilishly.  
Molly's eyes widened and she grinned. "No you did not!?"  
"Yes. He did not talk to me for three days after he had lectured me that he was NOT gay."  
They both chuckled and had another sip.  
Something had been on Molly's mind the whole day, so she asked, "How did you get an appointment at _Réné's _on such short notice? Is he another one of your former clients?"  
The smile had left Sherlock's face and his attention was back on the crowd again. "I made the appointment well ahead of time."  
"But how could you? You couldn't know that I would be going with you."  
Sherlock shrugged. "I did know."  
Molly put one hand on her hip. "What if I'd had other plans for tonight?"  
He looked at her with his trade mark don't-be-ridiculous-stare. "You did not, I checked. And even if you did, you would have cancelled them to come with me."  
She hated that he was right. That self-righteous bastard!

Since Molly did not know what to repeat to that she was glad when a tall man with grey hair walked up to them and greeted the consulting detective by stretching out his hand and saying, "Oh Herr Holmes, wie schön Sie zu sehen! Und wer ist Ihre bezaubernde Begleitung, wenn ich fragen darf?"  
They shook hands and the man looked expectantly at Molly.  
"Herr Friedrichs das ist Doktor Molly Hooper," Sherlock introduced her (of course he could speak German, why was Molly not surprised…) and then explained to her, "Molly this is Mr Bernhard Friedrichs, he is the ambassador's brother and tonight's host."  
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Friedrichs."  
"The pleasure is all mine", he assured her with a thick German – no Austrian – accent and kissed her hand. Molly almost snickered at his antics.  
"The ball is wonderful, Mr Friedrichs," Molly complimented the host. He seemed very flattered by her statement, because he seemed to stand a little taller.  
"Thank you. And if I may say so: I would not have given Mr Holmes the credit of having such lovely company." Molly blushed, but out of the corners of her eyes she could see Sherlock shooting daggers at the man. If it had not been Sherlock Holmes, she would have guessed he was jealous. Mr Friedrichs turned to the consulting detective again. "Es freut mich, dass Sie es persönlich geschafft haben. Ich dachte, Mycroft würde Sie vertreten?"  
Sherlock's face was again set into a neutral expression. "Nach all dem was Sie für mich getan haben…"  
Mr Friedrichs nodded and pat Sherlock on the back, which the consulting detective did not seem to like at all. An uncomfortable silence settled. Neither of them knew what to say. Sherlock because of his lack of experience with small talk (or his refusal to participate in it) and Mr Friedrichs because he sensed that Sherlock was more or less done with talking, but did not really know how to excuse himself. Therefore it was left to Molly to do something. And luckily she had an idea. In a bold move she grabbed Sherlock's arm and put on her best whining tone, "Sherlock, you've promised me a dance."  
Sherlock did not seem to get it at first and looked at her hand on his arm incredulously. It hardly ever happened that Molly Hooper touched him on her own accord, because she knew he abhorred physical touch. But Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not fast, so he caught up on her plan after a few seconds. He laid his hand over hers on his arm and looked her in the eyes.  
"Oh yes, sure."  
He looked back to Mr Friedrichs for a second, "Wenn Sie uns entschuldigen würden?"  
Mr Friedrichs nodded in understanding, clearly relieved. "Aber natürlich." And then added in Molly's direction, "It was nice to have met you, Dr Hooper. Take care of him. We don't want him to jump off a roof again, do we?" He winked and Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"Don't worry, Mr Friedrichs." And then Sherlock put down their glasses onto the counter and pulled her away towards the dance floor.

"What are you doing?" Molly whispered when he was still not letting go of her, pulling her between the dancing couples.  
"Dancing, obviously."  
Molly looked around a bit frantic. "I just said that to get you away from that man." She still kept her voice down without really knowing why.  
"I know. But wouldn't it look suspicious if we went away to dance and then don't dance at all. What would he think?"  
"Since when do you care what other people think?"  
Sherlock came to a halt and without further ado pulled Molly into closed position – one hand around her waist, the other holding hers - and started to move in time with the music. Molly was so taken aback by his actions that she could not do anything else but follow his lead. And she found it easy to follow, because Sherlock obviously knew what he was doing; he was a brilliant dancer. Sherlock seemed to sense her surprise about his dancing skills and smirked. "You didn't think I could dance."  
"No, I mean yes, I..." She remembered that he had advised her not to stammer tonight, but it was hard to form a coherent sentence when he was oh so close, holding her like they did this on a regular basis. His hand on the small of her back was sending shivers down her spine and she hoped desperately that he would not notice. She gulped and started again, "I didn't think you were such a good dancer."  
"Well, you're not so bad yourself." He tightened the hold on her waist in order to spin them faster, as the tempo of the waltz sped up. They glided over the dance floor quite gracefully and Molly felt her nervousness drain away with the wonderful music, and she relaxed into Sherlock's embrace. He seemed to feel her change in posture, because something akin to contentment settled over his features.

The next waltz was slower and Molly thought they would leave the dance floor, but Sherlock made no attempt to do so. Instead they continued to dance. Not that she minded...  
Since they both seemed to feel comfortable, she dared to ask, "This Mr Friedrichs, did he help you during your time away?" Molly never referred to his absence after the fall as "your death". He may have been dead to the world, but not to her. He rarely talked about his time dismantling Moriarty's network, and she hardly ever asked. Somehow it was a sore spot – for both of them.  
Sherlock's hold on her hand tightened just the slightest bit, but she noticed. He looked at her for a couple of turns, clearly considering how much he should reveal to he, until he asked a question of his own, "Why do you think so?"  
Molly shrugged – or tried to do so, because shrugging properly was not so easy while waltzing. "I don't know... The way he referred to you jumping off a roof, I guess." Sherlock nodded, staring on a stop behind her head, as he was once again reminded, that Molly Hooper was way more observant than most people gave her credit for.  
The pathologist was almost sure that he would not say anything else on the topic, when he finally answered her earlier question, "Yes, he helped me get to Austria, where I worked for some time."  
Molly knew that "worked" was probably a euphemism for: killed someone.  
"I see," was all she could think of saying.

They danced again for some time without speaking, when Sherlock said out of the blue, "I've thought about what you said yesterday."  
Molly could not follow. "About what?"  
Sherlock sighed dramatically, as if he expected her to read his thoughts and explained, "About the fact that the level of the IQ has nothing to do with how good the sex is. And I think you're wrong."  
"What?!" The petite pathologist was so surprised by his statement that she stumbled a bit and stepped onto Sherlock's left foot. He tried his best to keep his face from contorting in pain and her from falling, put he could not prevent them from colliding with another dancing couple who shot daggers at them, before they continued to dance. Molly and Sherlock remained standing and Molly stepped out of his embrace. The other dancers swayed past them, clearly not liking that there was someone standing in the middle of the dance floor.  
Sherlock cleared his throat before he went on to explain why he thought her logic was false, "Someone who is more intelligent is a better learner and might find it easier to find out what you prefer in bed and hence could satisfy you better."  
Molly's eyes were as big as saucers and she was more proud of herself than ever for not stumbling over her next sentence. "We're not really having this conversation, are we?"  
The consulting detective's voice clearly showed that he found nothing abnormal about his choice of topic. "Why do you feel uncomfortable about it? You were to one who started this conversation in the first place."  
"Me?! When?" Her voice was a bit louder this time and a couple waltzing by gave her the death-stare.  
"When you've told me that you and Tom were having quite a lot of sex."  
Molly turned crimson, remembering the incident. "That was a totally different conversation all together."  
"Isn't every conversation a built up from another conversation of the same topic?" he reasoned.  
Molly shook her head. "Even if it were so: It was ages ago and a whole different context."  
He huffed. "It was not **ages **ago. But you're right, the context was different, namely no context at all. You just told me, out of the blue. I still don't know why you did." He drew his eyebrows together like he was thinking about it.  
"Even **if **every conversation was a built up from another one, you can't apply your theory to this." She made an expansive gesture with her hands.  
"Why not?" The wrinkle between his eyebrows became deeper.  
"Because I'm sure you can't remember every conversation we've ever had. You've probably deleted most of them," said with triumph in her voice.  
Sherlock sighed. His eyes scanned the room and Molly had the distinct feeling that he was avoiding her gaze. It felt weird, because normally it was the other way round. She was quite sure she had put an end to this conversation, when she heard Sherlock mumble, "I've deleted some, but I've restored most of them."  
Molly was taken aback yet again. "You've restored them?"  
Finally he met her eyes. "Yes, while I was away. I was... bored."  
The last word was spoken so low that it was almost inaudible over the music. She knew he had been tempted to use another word, but had changed his mind in the last second. There was something in his eyes that Molly could not quite place. It reminded her of the look he had worn when she had seen him leaving the Watson wedding. And again she just wanted to hug him and tell him that he was not alone and that things had not changed for the worse, but for the better. But before Molly could think of a way how to proceed without embarrassing herself and making Sherlock uncomfortable, the waltz had ended and the people around them were clapping. The consulting detective seemed to remember that they were in the middle of the dance floor, but had stopped dancing a while ago. So he took Molly by the arm and guided her to the far end of the room, mumbling, "I need some fresh air." The pathologist did what she always did: she followed him.

* * *

**A/N: The Austrian Embassy being in Belgravia is not a reference, but it really is situated at Belgrave Square – what a funny coincidence isn't it? ;-) **

**And here's the translation of the German sentences:  
**"Oh Herr Holmes, wie schön Sie zu sehen! Und wer ist Ihre bezaubernde Begleitung, wenn ich fragen darf?" – „Oh Mr Holmes, how nice to see you! And who is your lovely company, if I may ask?"

"Herr Friedrichs das ist Doktor Molly Hooper." – „Mr Friedrichs this is Dr Molly Hooper." (That one was quite obvious, wasn't it?)

"Es freut mich, dass Sie es persönlich geschafft haben. Ich dachte, Mycroft würde Sie vertreten?" - „I'm glad you could make it yourself. I thought Mycroft would represent you?"

"Nach all dem was Sie für mich getan haben…" – „After everything you did for me…"

"Wenn Sie uns entschuldigen würden?" – „If you'll excuse us?"

„Aber natürlich." – „But of course."


	3. The Payment

**A/N: Thanks again for all your support on this one. I REALLY appreciate it. And now we've come to the end... **

* * *

**The Payment **

When they stepped onto the enormous balcony, there were only two other people out there – a man and a woman silently chatting.  
Sherlock breathed out audibly and let go of Molly's hand. She instantly missed his touch. Sherlock went to the banister and looked over the backyard. It laid in the dark, but Molly could make out a small fountain and some well trimmed bushes. She imagined she could even hear the water bickering.  
"I'm glad I'm away from all those... people," Sherlock spat while looking into the darkness.  
Molly chucked and stepped next to him. "What, you don't want to mingle a bit more?" she asked in mock wonderment.  
He huffed. "That word is not part of my vocabulary."  
She smiled and looked over to the couple on the other side of the balcony. They were about her and Sherlock's age – the man being slightly smaller than Sherlock but having broader shoulders and a beard, and the woman being just stunning. Molly could not think of another word. She had long blonde hair that softly cascaded down over her bare shoulders. Her dress was midnight blue and went down in soft waves to the ground. She looked like an elf out of a fairytale. Sherlock followed Molly's gaze and caught on her train of thoughts.  
"You look quite pretty yourself tonight."  
Molly's head snapped away from the woman into the direction of the owner of the voice.  
"You've said I'm not pretty." Her tone was suspicious.  
"When?" He obviously did not know to which incident she did refer to, but Molly made him remember it, "You've said I don't comply with the conventional ideal of beauty."  
"Well you don't. But I think it's quite obvious that I am… different. And hence I hardly find the conventional ideal of beauty appealing."  
Now Molly's brown knitted in confusion, trying to make sense of the man in front of her. "Is that your way of paying me a compliment?"  
He seemed at least as much confused as she was, when he said slowly, "I guess it is."  
She blushed a bit, but hoped that the dim light on the balcony would disguise it. "Well, I guess, thank you then."  
"You're welcome."  
They stood next to each other, shoulder to shoulder looking over the dark lawn trying to make out the fountain in the distance. An uncomfortable silence settled. Both wanting to say something, but not knowing what exactly.  
It was Sherlock who finally broke it. With his gaze still directed at the backyard he said, "Thank you for coming with me tonight." Molly could hear that he was sincere.  
"Thanks for taking me with you. I've never been to something like that before."  
"I know." To Molly's surprise the way he said it did not sound smug.  
She turned so that her body was directed towards him, although he was still staring straight ahead. Since he had talked to Mr Friedrichs she had a suspicion. "Sherlock?"  
"Hm?" He did not turn to look at her.  
"The invitation had always been meant for you, hadn't it?"  
His face gave nothing away. "Yes."  
"Then why come? You hate that kind of thing."  
"But I was sure you wouldn`t."  
It took Molly a moment to make sense of what he had just said. "You mean, you're here because..."  
"... because of you," he ended her sentence. "I hoped it would make you happy."  
Molly was speechless. He had done all this for her? He had even wanted to pay her to make sure she would be going out with him!? He had endured an evening at a social event just because he thought it would make her happy? She had already been touched when he had invited her to solve a crime with him, but this... this was... She could feel her heart beat erratically when she dared to ask him, "But Sherlock, why?"  
He closed his eyes, as if trying to find the courage to say what he wanted to, or not wanted, but needed to say. But he remained silent and Molly wished desperately he would turn to look at her. She searched her mind for what she could do to help him – the both of them. When she came up with something she drew a deep breath and summoned all her courage. She took a tentative step towards him and laid her hand over his on the railing. His eyes snapped towards their hands and she could see his whole body stiffen. But she was determined to do this.  
"We still haven't agreed on my payment."  
That made him finally look up from their hands, and his expression switched from confusion to a stony mask in mere seconds. But Molly would not waver because of that. She had expected it.  
"I thought you don't want any payment?" He tried his best to keep his voice as cold and flat as possible, but the petite woman saw through his act. He was hurt.  
She tried to keep her own act together as well. "I do."  
"Well then, what do you want?" Sherlock tried to stand a bit taller and pull away her hand from hers, but she would have none of it and held on to it. When she did so he gave into an irritated expression.  
Molly took another step towards him, looking him straight in the eyes when she answered, "A kiss." Sherlock's shocked face was almost comical. He blinked at her a few times, before he repeated, "A kiss?"  
"Yes, I want you to kiss me. Not on the cheek, but..."  
"I understand," he interrupted her curtly and Molly tried her best not to flinch. But she could not help but look down onto the floor and bite her lower lip. She started to doubt her plan. Maybe she had gone too far?  
And just as she was about to apologize and to think of a way to escape Sherlock Holmes, before she would break into tears, she felt his hand squeezing hers on the railing. Then she saw his other hand coming into her field of vision, his fingers being put under her chin and tilting her head upwards to look at him. And when she finally met his gaze she did not need him to verbalize why he had done all of this for her, because the answer was blatant in his eyes. He smiled softly at her and she could not help but do the same, before his lips were pressed to hers in a gentle kiss. Her hands wandered around his neck on her own accord and she pulled him closer to her. He did the same as one hand found purchase on her hip and the palm of his other hand came to rest across her cheek.

After some time they had to draw apart for some air. Their lips were swollen and Molly was glad that Marie had had enough foresight to persuade her to take the kiss-proof lipstick.  
"Now was that an adequate payment, Miss Hooper?" Sherlock asked with a smirk.  
"Is that your idea of strictly business, Mr Holmes?" she teased back.  
"What do you think how John paid his part of the rent?"  
Molly laughed and Sherlock joined her. They were still standing close to each other most of their bodies touching. After another moment Sherlock said casually "I just think it's time you'll take an intelligent man home with you." The moment he had finished the sentence all playfulness was gone and Molly stared at him in utter disbelieve.  
"No, that's not what I meant... I mean... I did... I just..." He raked his hand through his curls. "Now who's the one stuttering?" he chucked bitterly.  
Although Molly was nervous herself, she could relate to how he was feeling. Therefore she smiled sweetly at him and took hold of his left hand again. She let her thumb travel over the back of his hand in what she hoped was a soothing gesture. A small smile tucked at the corners of his lips when he realized what she was doing. And it seemed to work, because he explained, "What I mean is: I'd like to come home with you, but I don't think we should have sexual intercourse just yet. I want to, just..."  
She squeezed his hand. "I know what you mean. It's fine. But only on one condition."  
"And what would that be?" There was the slightest spark of panic in his eyes, and if Molly hadn't known Sherlock so well she would have missed it. But she did, and so she felt almost sorry that she had worried him for a moment, when she was only teasing him. She took hold of his other hand as well and a smile was gracing her lips when she answered, "I'm not going to sleep on the couch tonight!"

When Molly woke up on Sunday morning she was not feeling the usual pang of disappointment that normally accompanied a night of Sherlock Holmes sleeping in her bed. Because on this Sunday morning she was lying in her bed as well, and she had the feeling that she would not have to sleep on the couch ever again.

**The End **


End file.
